


THE GAME

by cbooks_ (juggernaught)



Category: Original Work
Genre: Action, Blood and Gore, Blood and Violence, F/M, Prison, Science Fiction, Thriller
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-09
Updated: 2018-04-02
Packaged: 2019-03-15 21:22:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13621926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/juggernaught/pseuds/cbooks_
Summary: WELCOME TO"THE GAME"THE RULES OF “THE GAME”1. “THE GAME"LASTS SEVEN DAYS WITH SEVEN PARTICIPANTS2. MALICIOUS CONTACT OUTSIDE OF THE ARENA IS PUNISHABLE3. THE LAST ONE ALIVE AT THE END OF"THE GAME"STAYS ALIVE





	1. SENTENCE

**1\. Sentence**

 

_THE FIRST THING I’M AWARE OF_ upon waking is the cold bite of metal in my skin. I open my eyes and find a red-haired beauty holding a switchblade against my jugular, her eyes full of fire. “How did you know I like BDSM?” I crack a smile that cracks my skull in half with blinding agony. It takes me a few seconds to listen past the huskiness and realize my voice sounds odd. Higher.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” she says in a babyish voice, and I realize the beauty is a child no more than eight years old. Well, there goes my fantasy—pedophilia is not in my range of crime. “Tell me what I’m doing here and I might make this quick for you.” She presses the blade down, causing my blood to bead on the silver.

“You mean on top of me? I like being ridden, but not by primary school brats, Red.” As I speak, I start to reach for the handgun I always keep in my waistband, but I can’t feel it—or my pants, in fact. “You sly little thing—where’s my gun?” I smirk at her, but inside my blood is boiling from the thought she’s taken my property.

“I don’t know, but maybe you’ll find it in Hell when I slit your thick neck.”

“Deborah,” a sharp but tired voice says from somewhere. She grits her small teeth, digging the blade further into my skin until blood is dripping down the sides of my neck and staining my collar. “Deborah!” She climbs off of me and I sit up, reeling as vertigo slams into my skull like a sledgehammer. I’m so consumed by pain and disorientation it takes me a few moments to realize what’s happening.

I’m wearing a plain grey prison jumpsuit in place of my sweatshirt and jeans from earlier, but what I notice is how small my body looks and feels compared to a few hours ago—or was it hours ago? Feels like I’ve been asleep for months. I rub my aching jaw and feel silky-smooth skin, which I haven’t had since puberty hit thirty years ago with its friend, a perpetual five-o’-clock shadow, and my hand, too, is smaller and smoother and not scarred in the least. I wish I have a mirror, but what I see next makes me forget all about that.

The place I’m…we’re…in is dark, but it’s lit up at certain points with big stadium lights like the Super Bowl. The floor is cool white marble and the walls curve around us in the shape of an oval, and looking closer at them, they seem to be made of metal panels. I try to stand but miscalculate with my new weight, swaying and almost banging my head on the ground. I look around and see more people around the space: a old man, probably in his late eighties; a younger woman, twenties or thirties; the aforementioned Red; what looks like a pair of identical preschoolers in your typical Horror-flick overalls; a blond boy around my age (well, my physical age) standing far away from the rest of us. Everyone looks at each other warily as if they automatically don’t trust strangers, while meanwhile I’m considering ways to get all of them in one fell swoop and get the hell out A.S.A.P.

_“—you’re under arrest. You’ve the right to remain silent—anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law—”_

_“Don’t feel smug yet, Blue. You’re only catchin’ me because I want ya to, otherwise you idiots wouldn’t ever have—oof! You’re gonna regret doing that.”_

I rub my temples as a weird pain appears in my head, like my brain got a black eye.

_“Get him! Don’t let him get away!”_

_“You’ve already done a piss-poor job, Blue!”_

Suddenly a neon green light pierces through the darkness. We all turn to the left and see a huge electric billboard on the wall flashing bright green words at us with painful brilliance.

 

**WELCOME TO “THE GAME”**

 

Everyone looks at the board with the light casting weird shadows over their face. The old man chuckles, shaking his head. “Something funny there, old guy?” one of the kids say. Both look three or four and have the same brunette bowl cut and denim overalls, but I assume the one who spoke is a girl.

“Not particularly,” he says, which makes her literally growl.

“Kat,” the other kid says, trying to calm her.

“I hope you’re not hiding anything from me, Sander,” Red says to the old man. He shakes his head, still chuckling, and combs through his short white hair with his fingers.

“No, no, I’m as in the dark as you, sadly.”

“Oh, Mr. One Step Ahead doesn’t know what’s going on?” Deborah snorts, putting her hands on her hips. “What. A. Surprise.”

“You’re a real kindred spirit, Red,” I tell her. She gives me a dangerous look from the corner of her eye. Behind her, the screen scrolls down to a list.

 

**THE RULES OF “THE GAME”**

**1.** **“THE GAME” LASTS SEVEN DAYS WITH SEVEN PARTICIPANTS**

**2.** **MALICIOUS CONTACT OUTSIDE OF THE ARENA IS PUNISHABLE**

**3.** **THE LAST ONE ALIVE AT THE END OF “THE GAME” STAYS ALIVE**

 

At first, me and half of the other guys laugh and look around thinking it’s some sort of death row joke, but the words hang there, and we all realize these guys are damn serious. The words fade until they’re gone completely, as if they never existed in the first place. “…Everybody saw?” the blond boy asks, his voice breaking through the confused silence.

Red bares her teeth at him. “No, genius, we’re all blind as bats.” He looks unaffected, although it’s most likely because she’s about as threatening as the common cold.

“Somebody needs a spanking,” the older woman says, putting her hands together in excitement. She has long and curly blonde hair and soft-looking tan skin and some damn good tits.

The kids sigh in unison. “I need to get out of here. I’m surrounded by idiots.”

“Excuse me?” Red’s eyes are blazing. “ _I’m_ the idiot?”

The old man sighs. “They said _surrounded_. They ain’t single you out, Deborah.” Deborah grits her teeth, flicking her switchblade out. In response, each of the kids draw a silver handgun that dwarfs their child’s hands.

“Either way, I’m not going to stand for it, especially from two brats who aren’t even potty-trained.”

“I have a Master’s,” the female says.

“And I have a Bachelor’s,” the male says.

“Who cares?” Red says. It’s starting to look like a full-on fight and the others pick up on it. The old man takes out a cleaver which seemed to be duct-taped to his stomach and the spanking woman takes out what looks like plastic cable ties. She sneers.

“You sure you can handle it, Grandpa?” 

“I’ll have you know I’ve been swinging this baby since before your cherry was popped,” he says with a smirk. She laughs with a glint in her eye. I check myself and swear aloud at how defenseless I am. I’ve been carrying a gun since I was old enough to count to ten, and now it seems to have mysteriously vanished right when I need it the most. I take a step back, hoping my kidnapped companions won’t notice, and feign reaching into the zippered front of my jumpsuit.

“The last one alive gets to stay alive.” The old man from earlier shuffles to the front of the crowd, hunched over and knobby and fragile-looking. “That’s what the message said. Which means if you all die, I can live.”

“If _you_ all die, _I_ can live,” Red says, her little pink tongue dancing over her silver switchblade. Can’t say I’m not a little excited by it, even if she’s eight—hell, by that logic, my balls only just dropped. “And that includes you, Sander.” 

“What happened to worker’s loyalty?” He’s waving his cleaver back and forth.

“Went down the toilet along with your good looks.”

“I want to get off,” the woman says with a lusty expression. She instantly gets everyone’s attention.

“I’ll help,” the male kid says. The other one looks at me.

“Why aren’t you saying anything, huh?”

“Well,” I say, rubbing my throat, “I’d rather have you all _think_ me an idiot than make it a fact like the rest of you are doing.”

“ _You’re_ calling us idiots?” Red slides into a fighting stance. “That’s a bad move. I made my way through the governor’s layers of security and was a hair’s breadth from slitting his throat before they caught me. An unarmed thirteen-year-old is too easy.”

“Yeah? We’ll see,” I say with more confidence than I feel.

“I was put on death row for third degree manslaughter,” the little boy says. “The second or third time I did it.”

“It was the sixth time you did it, Kit,” the little girl reminds him.

“Oh, you’re right as always, Kat. It wasn’t on the _political level,_ but I know more than a few about breaking people.”

“With my help, of course.”

_Kit and Kat,_ I think. _The perfect pair._

“You were on death row too?” the woman says, pointing at the two kids.

“And I smuggled ten types of drugs in from other countries,” the old man says. “X, crystal meth, you name it. Used more than half of them locally.”

“Armed robbery,” the blond says.

“Great, now everybody’s telling their sob story.” Red snorts.

“I _hate_ to say it, but Red Riding Hood is correct. I think we’re losing focus on the bigger picture,” Kat says. “Like, for example, why my brother and I are _four years old._ ”

“And why I’m an eight-year-old,” Deborah says.

“I was twenty-odd years old yesterday,” the old man says.

“Are you sure it was yesterday?” Kit asks. “Feels like millennia…”

“And how did we get here?” Kat says. “I was locked away in a safe house with my brother. Nobody knew where we were except us.”

“Lucky you,” the old man says. “I was sitting on The Chair itself.”

I rub my head. “I’m too hungover for confrontation right now. Call again later.”

“A comedian? I love comedians,” the woman says, twisting a lock of blonde hair on her finger. We make a silent decision to ignore her.

“I’m guessing you were always a big bastard,” Red says. I snort.

“Hell, who knows. We’re all in a strange situation right now.” 

“What now?” Kit asks. As he finishes speaking the wall directly ahead of us creaks and splits in two, sliding apart to reveal a square of light too bright to see through.

“Might as well see what lies beyond,” the old man says, and despite a bunch of murmuring and uncertainty, we follow him through.

The door leads into a circular lobby like one from a five-star hotel. The room is entirely white and filled with furniture that looks like what I’d see in an Italian magazine like a sectional couch, stuffed armchairs, and plasma T.V.s, and has seven tall wooden doors around the far wall. Each of them have a name, and when I move closer I can read them out on the golden plaques. “Looks like we’re designated,” I say, pointing at them.

“Looks like bull to me.” Deborah snorts, switching her blade out again. Again, I sulk in my defenselessness, but it makes me wonder: Was I arrested before I ended up here, wherever _here_ is? It would explain how I’m unarmed and in a jumpsuit, but…I can’t be sure—my memory is still a little fuzzy.

“Well, there’s nowhere else to go,” Kit says, and moves past me to open the door marked “Christopher Jenson.” The doorway is completely black, but he, apparently braver than the rest of us, charges in, and the door immediately slams shut behind him. There are no sounds afterwards, so either he’s dead or he likes what he sees. His sister apparently assumes the latter, because she goes into the door marked “Katherine Jenson.”

“Do we risk our lives for this crap?” Deborah asks.

“Well, we could die here with no warning.” The old man shrugs before painfully shuffling inside the door “Lysander Smallwood.” Deborah huffs, pushing past me through the door I’m standing in front of, the one with the plaque saying: “Deborah Ortiz.”

“He has something of a point,” the woman says. Her door is: “Bianca Castellano.”

That leaves me alone with the blond one.

“Go ahead,” he says, shrugging.

“You first.” We stare at each other for a long time.

“You’re the cautious type, aren’t you.” It doesn’t sound like a question.

“Of course.”

“And yet.” And without another word he stalks into the door marked “Klaus Hirsch.” That leaves one door on the far right, the one with the plaque saying: “Marty Sullivan.” 

The door slams itself, which forces me further into the darkness, which immediately disappears as a light somewhere in the distance turns on.

The room is large and rectangular with wooden floors and blue walls. There are two red couches on either side with a glass coffee table and a knitted blanket on both of them. There are two doors on the left side I assume go to the bathroom and bedroom. “For some sort of kidnapping attempt, this place is pretty high-class.” I look up when I notice the delicious smell of cooked food and spot a buffet bar on the other side of the room. I walk up to it slowly; there are platters of shrimp and cocktails, barbecued chicken, Salisbury steak, egg rolls, chicken fried rice… I clench my stomach as it growls like a wild animal. Really, my one vice? Whoever put this together must’ve done all their research—I would do borderline anything for a good, hot plate of food.

I find a clean china plate nearby but ignore it in favor of a silver serving spoon, instead shoving fried rice and chicken broth in my mouth until my jaw is about to unhinge. It doesn’t occur to me that all of this could be poisoned, but the taste is damn near heavenly. If it’ll kill me, hell, I was on death row anyway.

The thought makes me stop. The others…they said they were on death row too, and if their words were false, then their names were proof enough. I remember Bianca Castellano from a few years back, except she was forty-something instead of the lovely, busty twenty-year-old here, yet the appearance, if my photographic memory hasn’t regressed like I have, is similar. She was a serial rapist, going after well-hung young men and killing them after. It was actually a good business…

_Regression._

I choose one of the room’s two doors at random and push it open. Inside is a clean porcelain bathroom with a mirror. I stand in front of it, mentally bracing myself for what I see.

The last time I saw myself—days ago? weeks?—I was a tall, unshaven forty-year-old, two hundred pounds of muscle and raw attitude. Now, staring into the mirror, I meet the eyes of an underdeveloped fourteen-year-old with unkempt brown hair and a skinny weak frame. I rub my eyes and wash my face and dunk my head in scalding bathwater, but aside from a few red patches, my appearance doesn’t change.

“Well, that clears something up,” I say, grateful to have some noise in my ears other than my building panic. “We’ve all changed ages…but how and by who, that’s the real question.”

I don’t have the answers, but I know how to find them. ‘The last one alive at the end of the seven days gets to stay alive.’ Someone or something put us death row inmates into some sort of carnage carnival, and it looks like you can only live by making sure the others die. When all the participants are manslaughter detainees, well, can’t help but be interested in the outcome. 


	2. Sacrifice

**2\. Sacrifice**

 

“MR. SULLIVAN, YOU WERE ARRESTED _for third-degree manslaughter, were you not?” my lawyer asks…except she’s not my lawyer. My lawyer was old, fat, and bald, while she’s slim in her grey pinstriped suit with dark hair pulled into a bun and curves that make me want to throw her over the lacquered defendant’s desk I sit behind. Other than this desk, the courtroom is blank and ominously empty._

_“Who’s asking?” I try to raise my arms but my wrists are cuffed to my chair’s legs. Her black pumps play out a sharp song on the waxed white marble floor as she slowly paces back and forth._ Pat-pat-pat-pat _… One way or another, the sound gives me an irritating headache._

_“This is no time for jokes, Mr. Sullivan.” She comes to a stop directly in front of me and slamming her palms on the desk. I try not to stare into the valley of her breasts in her dress shirt and instead into her dark eyes. “The Game is serious business, you know.”_

_“The Game…” That’s right, I’m in The Game, a prisoner in it. “What is this? Where am I?” I begin struggling but my restraints don’t loosen. Damn this juvenile strength. It seems I wasted three years of my life weight-lifting, considering it’s all gone away in the blink of an eye._

_“The Game is exactly as it sounds, Mr. Sullivan.” She’s ignoring my struggles and walking away, hands clasped at the small of her back. “It’s a game, and as in every game, there is a winning side and the losing side.”_

_“Except I never knew Monopoly to be so bloody,” I grin, kicking my legs out. “Only when Mom and Dad were involved and they started shoutin’ and beatin’ and stabbin’.”_

_“All seven of you are getting this same chat,” she continues, still ignoring me._

_“So, do all seven of us get to see a sexy broad like you, or do I get the special treatment?”_

_“All seven of you have the same exact chances. The Game was created that way to create as equal an environment as possible.” I snort._

_“Yeah, that’s why some of us came into The Game prepubescent. And speaking of_ The Game _, I ask again: what_ is _it exactly?”_

_“The Game is a small tournament created by The Gamemasters meant to test the drive, will, and survival instinct of seven death row inmates while at the same time giving them a chance to fight for the life they obviously don’t deserve.”_

_“Hey, I know I don’t deserve to live, so I get out of this? This, uh, form is pretty uncomfortable, ya know?”_

_“The only way to get out of The Game is to win,” she says, turning to face me once more. For the first time I notice her face, and it’s so incredibly plain I’m sure I’ll forget it by the time I wake up—if I’m dreaming. “You win or you die. Those are your options, Marty Sullivan, so as they say, pick your poison and choose your doorway out.”_

I’m startled awake by the sound of a distant bell ringing. Although the bedside clock in the amazingly-nice room says I’ve been asleep for twelve hours, my head feels stuffed full of cotton and I can barely stand on my feet. I stumble into the bathroom and crank the shower up to scalding, stripping out of the prison uniform and standing under the spray until my skin is burning. I scrub myself hard with the bar of soap, trying to wipe away this bad dream known as The Game, but it stays there, albeit rawer. I shut the water off, and it’s when I’m drying myself off it occurs to me I don’t have any other clothes. I step out and a square of tiles on the walls opens. A tray slides out of the space with a clean pair of boxers, white shirt and blue jeans topped with a large towel. I have to check the boxers first.

I dry myself off before trying them on, and amazingly, they fit perfectly. I have no idea who took my measurements, especially since I didn’t look this way yesterday (yesterday?) but I’d like to hope it was that broad from my dream. Of course, it _was_ a dream that may or may not have been real in the first place.

I get dressed and look in the mirror. If I expected any change in myself, any at all, it didn’t happen. I groan and check the cabinets, coming up with a toothbrush and Colgate. I realize then I’m acting a little too calm in this situation. I’m in some sort of fight-to-the-death competition like an old arcade game I used to play as a kid— _Mortal Kombat_ , I think—and I’m here eating their food and sleeping in their bed and wearing their boxers. I start laughing, choking a little on the foamy toothpaste, as I have a different thought: all of us are more than a little crazy, so this is fucking normal, especially for us criminals.

But I must wonder why the seven of us were picked and what kind of bastards would want to watch us kill each other. I don’t know, maybe the people didn’t want to just see us get The Chair. Maybe they wanted a show for us guys. I can’t be sure if it was the common people, but humans tend to get like this with killers like us: they think we’re animals, waste to be disposed of because we make them feel scared, but I’m damn sure the other six guys here have reasons for doing what they did. That’s how people like us work: something happens that makes us snap and instead of using stress balls or some similar shit, we go on a spree.

I finish brushing my teeth and spit into the sink, zipping myself into the prison suit and leaving. The lobby of wherever we are is empty, but it’s obvious people were here from the discarded bullets and fresh bloodstains on the couch and the purple thong pinned to the wall by Deborah’s switchblade. I snatch it off and stuff it into the jumpsuit, and I take the blade for good measure. I go rigid when I get the sudden feeling I’m not alone.

“Whoever you are, show your ass,” It’s barely threatening with my cracking teenager’s voice, but I give it my best shot.

“Place your hands against the panel,” a calm secretary’s voice says over invisible speakers. I look around and see a grey panel on the wall where it wasn’t there before. There are two darker shapes on it for hands the size of mine.

“No fucking way.”

“Place your hands against the panel or face punishment.” I smirk and flip her both middle fingers, then I’m about to make a great joke about her asshole when the floor below me gives out like a trapdoor. I suck in a surprised breath as I drop away from the brightly-lit room into pure darkness, hitting a surface barely softer than concrete. The impact leaves a dull ache in my body but miraculously doesn’t kill me. Before I can inhale I feel restraints clamp on my wrists and ankles, forcing me into a spread-eagle position on my back, and the secretary woman returns.

“Marty Sullivan, the following process will be painless and fast if you do not resist.”

I try to pull my arms and legs free to no avail. I hear a distant click and the part of the floor I’m on starts moving, flipping out like Batman’s bookshelf until I’m looking out to the arena—and the other six killers. Some of them look like they want to laugh at me and the others actually do laugh.

“How’s it feel, tough guy?” Deborah shouts, as I’m suspended several feet above them.

“I’d like to know how you feel,” I shout back. Bianca starts looking dazed and dreamy, which makes me regret speaking in the first place.

“Each day of The Game will begin with one ‘sacrifice,’” the secretary woman says. Everyone looks around, confused and on edge. “Marty has graciously offered himself for the position.”

“Gratefully?” I shout. “You tricked me, you bitch! I’ll find you and I’ll—” Like the shackles coming out of nowhere, a thick band of fabric stretches across my mouth from wherever, forcing my tongue back and preventing me from speaking.

“The sacrifice will have his or her worst memory put on display. Then you all will attack and kill that person.” They’re bluffing—they have to be. They can’t show a person’s memory like a Lakers game, it’s impossible. On the other hand, it’s also impossible to change people’s ages…

“Um?” Bianca raises her hand, her dark eyes wide. “What’s the point? Does it help us…or hurt us?”

“No,” the woman says, and this time I can hear a smile in her voice. “The Gamemasters, however, are intent on allowing the sacrifice to relive their feelings of shame and guilt before death.”

“Mph! Mph! Kaaaaaw!” I feel another shackle clamp around my forehead, holding my head in place, and something gets pinned on each of my ears. I probably look horrible because even the old man Lysander is shaking his head. I feel a tiny shock, then full-blown electricity courses into my skull and down my body. The pain and force of it makes me go limp, and I lose consciousness for a few seconds. When I open my eyes again, the board that previously showed the game’s rules comes to life. I stare as a fuzz covers the giant screen, then a greyscale color scheme that looks funny on such a modern piece of technology. I hear vague sounds forming into distinct voices—mine and hers.

Then the memory begins. 


	3. Memory

**3\. Memory**

 

“I’M NERVOUS,” _Liza said, wringing her small hands together on her lap. I smiled and put my hand over hers._

_“It’s okay—it’d be strange if you weren’t. But we’ll make it through, huh?”_

_She smiled back at me, nodding. I pushed her hands apart and wound my fingers with hers. She squeezed my hand softly before gazing out of the car’s window. I tried not to speed down the street but I was pushing the limit, I was so excited. My cellphone rang, and because of the car’s Bluetooth the radio rang. I answered it and Lector’s voice instantly filled the car._

_“I hope you ain’t get cold feet, you single-nipple bastard!”_

_“No chance, you underdeveloped protozoa,” I said._

_“Hello, Lector,” Liza said._

_“Liza, always a pleasure to hear your soft and melodious voice versus my brother’s rough and unattractive one. You know, I still stand by my thought he drugged you when he proposed—”_

_“Lector,” I said, “what about the plans over there?”_

_There was a brief pause, then things quieted down. “Oh, ‘s all smooth as silk. The food is superb, the décor is lovely, and the bridesmaids are OMG. I already got three numbers, Mar!”_

_“Good for you, Lector. You plan on spending more than one night with them?”_

_“Of course not!” he said, genuinely appalled, which made Liza and I laugh. “The married life may be for_ you _, but I’m doing_ way _too well as a bachelor.”_

_“Yeah, alright.” I chuckled before he hung up. The rest of the ride was silent until I pulled into the parking lot of Holy Cross Church, which was full of the family’s cars. I’m sure everybody and their pets showed to see ole Marty tie the knot, Marty that waited until he turned thirty to find The One. I squeezed Liza’s hand once more as I parked in our reserved spot (I know Lector reserved it, also, by his cheesy “For the Drunken Lovebirds!” sign) and the church’s double doors flew open, allowing my younger sister Francesca to rush out in her canary-yellow bridesmaid dress and throw her short arms around me as I climb out of my Impala._

_“I thought for sure you’d bail, Marty,” she said, combing her short brown hair behind her ears._

_“You and Lector have little faith in me—I wonder why?”_

_Liza giggled, linking arms with Fran. “Oh, don’t tease him, Fran.” Though there was a twelve-year age difference between them, they looked like sisters with their matching dark hair, small figures, and wide and honest eyes. Fran laughed, pulling on her small white gloves._

_“After this, Liza, we’ll be sisters! Can you believe it?”_

_“It’ll be perfect,” she said as they went through the doors. I lingered for a moment before Lector and Ian, our best friend since preschool and now my best man, came down the stairs._

_“Ready for your monkey suit, guy?” Ian asked, flashing his white Hollywood smile. He was less of a womanizer than Lector, and I questioned why he hadn’t settled down on his twenty-seventh birthday. He had shrugged and smiled, and to this day I don’t think he knows the answer. I grinned back at them._

_“Yup.” They led me to through the sanctuary—packed full of Liza’s family and my own, all chatting eagerly—to one of the smaller rooms where Keenan, Ian’s nephew, was sitting at the computer desk, a hanger from the dry cleaner’s hanging over his outstretched arm._

_“Better hope it fits,” he said, standing up and handing it to me. The guys left and shut the door as I peeled the blue plastic away. The tux was jet-black and had a white rose pinned to the lapel—Liza’s favorite flower. I had to smile to myself as I stripped off my sweatshirt and jeans and slipped it on, checking myself in the full-length mirror behind the door. It fit—it fit perfectly, and…well damn, I could barely recognize myself. My hair was combed and trimmed to a decent length as it hadn’t been in years, I fully shaved, and, well, I looked normal—felt normal. When I left the room the guys immediately started cheering._

_“How’re you doin’ sexy?” Keenan said, pressing up against my shoulder. “Wanna get a room?”_

_I pushed him away, feigning disgust, but I couldn’t keep the smile off my face for long. “Where’s Liza?”_

_“She’s in the room down there,” Lector said, pointing down the hall to another room besides the ladies’ restroom. Outside, her girlfriends Aimee and Nancy were giggling to each other. He sighed and shook his head. “Ah, women.”_

_“They didn’t want to give you their numbers huh?” Ian asked. Lector looked genuinely stricken, which made the rest of us laugh. That’s when the door opened and Liza came out._

_In middle school, I believed my eighth-grade crush, Melanie Edwards, was the most beautiful girl in the world, although that’s subject to change at fourteen years old. She had the prettiest tan skin, curly hair, and she was a good girl to the core. Then in high school, I thought the prettiest girl was my Algebra II teacher, Mrs. Phillips. The problem began with her being a ‘missus,’ but it didn’t stop me from jacking off to her face for a few nights in a row. Then, finally, I believed Liza van Demi—soon to be Liza Sullivan—was the most beautiful, but seeing her those two years ago at Starbucks paled in comparison to how I saw her at that moment in the church._

_Her wedding dress was white but with a pink tinge—knowing her, probably from a bad wash—and had a sweetheart neckline emphasizing her perfectly-sized chest, a corset curving with her perfect body and rose petal ruffles ending at her ankles, where her feet began in cream-colored flats. Her hair was curled around her ears, pinned with diamonds I myself picked out, thank you very much, and the rest was pulled away from her face, which had enough makeup to glow in the hallway’s lights. She looked amazing, so much so Lector didn’t have any jokes, which is saying something huge._

_She turned slowly to face me, mouth open in similar awe, before falling into my arms, our lips meeting in the middle. She was wearing the strawberry-flavored lip gloss I like—not that I’d admit it to any of the guys—and it softened her already soft lips, allowing them to fold better beneath mine. I didn’t know how long we were kissing, but suddenly Ian cleared his throat. We pulled away, our lips red and swollen and chuckling a little._

_“They’re ready,” he said. I took her hand and smiled._

_“We are, too.”_

_Liza followed her girlfriends and Keenan into the sanctuary but Lector stopped me, biting his lip. I wondered what was up. Lector looked extremely anxious, like he committed murder, but knowing him that wasn’t it—maybe a Publix robbery, that was believable for him. “Marty.”_

_“What’s wrong, Lector?”_

_He started to talk, then he shook his head, swiping his hand across his face. “Nothing,” he said, slapping my shoulder. “I’ll see you in there.” He moved down the hall a little too quickly to get to the door. I followed behind him, going into the sanctuary. Everybody had fallen into position; they were all waiting for me. Mom waved at me from the pew, her blue eyes dewy as I stood at the altar in front of Pastor Fred._

_The pianist, an elderly but friendly man named Mr. Braxton, started our song,_ My Heart Will Go On _by Celine Dion. It was Liza’s choice because she thought no movie was as romantic as_ Titanic _, but to be honest it didn’t sound half bad, and it got some of the women teary before the procession started. Erie, Liza’s five-year-old niece, practically skipped down the path in her pink and frothy dress, spilling white rose petals as she went. She made more of a mess with them than actually getting them on the carpet, but it didn’t matter. Parents found her adorable until she made it to Harriet, Liza’s older sister. Then Liza came out on the arm of her father, Erick van Demi._

_Nothing seemed to take longer in my entire life than her trip to the altar. It looked like they were whispering to each other, but by Erick’s soft expression and her slightly-amused one, it was nothing serious. He probably wanted to get a few last jibes out. She finally made it to my side after a few eternities, Erick joining his wife and her stepmother, Nelly. Liza turned to me with a demure smile and held her hands out, palms-up. I took them with a similar smile, imagining myself with her for the rest of my life._

_“We are gathered here today,” Pastor said, as is customary, “to celebrate the matrimony of Marty Olivier Sullivan and Liza van Demi. No union is quite as perfect as one under God to be together eternally, through thick and thin, through hardships and good times. Love was what brought these two together, and love will continue to sustain them as long as they both shall live.” Someone in the back burst into tears. I didn’t look up, but it was most likely Mom judging by Fran’s replying whispers. “Now, Marty and Liza will say their handwritten vows.”_

_“Liza van Demi, since the moment I saw you I knew you were special. I know this is clichéd—hell, I felt like a cliché writing it—but I’ll be damned if the both of us aren’t the perfect cliché—Fred and Wilma, Jack and Rose, Mario and Peach—” got a lot of laughs and chuckles, “—and if we don’t fit together like puzzle pieces. The fact is, Liza, spending time with you, finding out how funny you are, how sweet and caring you are, how sensitive you are, I realized there’s nobody else on this big blue Earth I’d rather spend my life and beyond with. I give my heart, my soul, my_ everything _to you.”_

_“Marty Sullivan,” she said, a gentle blush on her face from my vows, “the moment I saw you, I thought you were Fred Flintstone.” There was more than laughter—Lector and Ian had to grip each other for dear life as they lost their minds. “I mean,” looking a little like she wanted to laugh too, “you were coarse and rough and you sort of had his caveman articulacy. But,” looking at my stricken expression, “you showed me under all of that, you have a big and soft heart full of love for life, and that’s what I fell in love with and that’s what I want to have with me for the rest of forever. You are my first and my only love, and you own my heart like no one else. Until the end of time, I will be yours as you are mine.”_

_“The rings?” Pastor Fred asked. Ian got up, still chuckling, as he held out the cushion with our wedding rings. The diamonds were small, not because I didn’t have much money (although it was a big factor) but because I believed we didn’t need to be showy with this, to show our love and bond. I took up her ring and lifted her hand, sliding it onto her slim finger._

_“With this ring, I be wed,” I whispered, meeting her eyes. She picked up my ring and slid it on my finger, her hand shaking as joyed tears built in her eyes._

_She cleared her throat as her lips trembled, slowly forming a smile. “With this ring, I be wed.”_

_“If someone opposes this union, please speak now or forever hold your piece,” the Pastor said. Nobody said a word and he smiled at us. “I now pronounce you two husband and wife—you may now kiss the bride.” I grinned, taking her in my arms and pressing my lips to hers._

_. . . ._

_The wedding party was loud, drunken, and obnoxious—and that was only the bride’s end. The church’s courtyard was filled with tables covered in white linen and tents to shield us from the sun as we basked in the afterglow of our marriage. As per tradition, Liza and I fed each other cake, although she smeared more of it on my face than got in in my mouth. I grinned wickedly and shoved a fistful down between her breasts._

_“Ack! Marty!” She stared at the forming stain on the dress with a faint smile on her mouth. “How am I going to get it out?” I growled playfully._

_“I’ll do it for you.” She raised her eyebrows and feigned swooning._

_“Isn’t it too early to disappear away? And to where?”_

_“Does it matter?” I silenced her with my lips and she practically melted into my arms. I hitched her legs on my hips and carried her away from her boisterous friends to the inside of the church, then to the men’s room where I knew bodily fluids would go pretty much unnoticed. I fumbled with her dress’ zipper._

_“Getting started a little too quick, aren’t you?”_

_“Well, you’re—mine now—I can—jeez, I hope you didn’t hurt yourself getting into this.”_

_“Are you calling me fat?”_

_“In the right places, sweetheart.” Finally, I got her zipper down, pushing the dress down her body until she was only in her white lace. I licked my lips and grabbed her forearms, kissing her again as she, in turn, unbuttoned my blazer and pants. It took about eight seconds for both of us to get naked, eleven for us to get on the floor (which was thankfully clean), and sixteen for me to realize something was up._

_“This doesn’t hurt?” I asked as I pushed into her. She shook her head through a moan. “You said you’re a virgin.”_

_“I—oh—I’m sorry, Marty.”_

_The fact she wasn’t didn’t bother me—what bothered me was why she needed to lie about it. I admitted I went down on a couple of girls in my time, which she didn’t seem pleased with, but it was the truth at least. I didn’t like the idea of her lying to me because it seemed out of character for her. “How many guys did you have sex with?” I asked, stopping for a moment and hovering above her, supporting myself with my elbows. She looked up at me, biting her lip in her general guilty expression._

_“Marty…” I started to sense something was wrong and pulled free, shifting away from her to tug on my boxers and pants. She turned away as well, covering her face slightly with her hand._

_“C’mon, Liza, I won’t be put-off, I want the truth.”_

_“The truth…” Suddenly she burst into tears, hugging me tightly enough to drop both of us on the tiled ground. I hugged her back, completely dumbfounded. “Oh, Marty, I was but—but—”_

_“But what? Liza, don’t tell me you were—” My hands fisted atop her shoulder blades. She nodded, her tears running down my back. I wanted to snap the neck of whoever did it—no, I wanted his pain to last. “Liza, tell me who it was.”_

_She hiccupped. “I can’t.”_

_“Do it, Liza!”_

_“It was…was…” She whispered his name, her voice shattering. I almost thought I misheard her, but I didn’t._

_“I gotta take a leak for a sec—damn!” Lector said as he entered the bathroom, the door shutting behind him. “You could a hung a sign or something, bro.” I wasn’t listening. I focused on getting up, throwing my blazer at Liza to cover herself with. “Marty, what’s wron—”_

_He didn’t get to finish before I tackled him, slamming him against the wall with my hand fisting with his tie, choking off his air supply. Suddenly it made sense, what he was trying to tell me earlier. Lector gasped something that clearly wasn’t a denial. I slammed him again, and this time blood smeared on the blue-painted wall from the back of his head._

I close my eyes, gritting my teeth at the turmoil that followed: first Ian came in, seeing the damage and dragging us apart, then my parents, then Liza’s parents, and pretty soon all of the party was forgotten and Lector was taken into custody and Liza went away to stay with her family for a while in Denver. The whole thing left a bad taste in my mouth, and not because it was my own brother. I knew something else had went down, and I found out what a couple of months later. Liza had moved in with me in my apartment, and it was the clichéd home-from-work-early I found her going down on some other dude in my bed.

Also, that was when she admitted she was the one who had sex with Lector.

Also, that was the day I became a killer—twice.

I feel the pain of the sparks die away, then the sound until everything’s quiet. The shackles release their grip on me and I slide those six feet to the ground, landing on my behind. I open my eyes, feeling as damned as the Gamemasters or whatever said I would, and see everyone coming at me. 


End file.
